


set me free in this starlit city

by akamine_chan



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Community: anon_lovefest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete spends the next years wandering the world, trying to find himself, trying to figure out what his purpose is.  There is no <i>Vampires for Dummies</i> that he's been able to find and he ends up spending a lot of time being confused and angstful and skulking in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	set me free in this starlit city

**Author's Note:**

> Written unanonymously for the LJ community anon_lovefest
> 
> Prompt: vamp!Pete (pairing options: none [gen], Pete/Patrick, Pete/Mikey/Alicia), he misses being human so intensely sometimes he wants to stand in the sun just to feel warm again.
> 
> Quick beta by Andeincascade, title is a lyric I twisted from _Tiffany Blews_ by Fall Out Boy.

It hurts, more than he ever expected it to. Not just his physical transformation, but the emotional one as well, having to leave behind everything that has some special place in his heart—family, friends, favorite places.

And he _has_ to leave; the temptation to stay and pretend that nothing has happened is too great.

So he goes.

In six months he is on the cover of _Rolling Stone_ , headlines blazing _The Mysterious Disappearance of Pete Wentz_. Another issue, ten years later and he barely recognizes himself. He looks so different now that he is sure no one could possibly recognize him: dangerously skinny, hair buzzed short and dyed white-blond, tats gone.

The loss of his tattoos and scars spins him out into a long depression; the irrevocable erasure of the outward manifestation of _who_ he is broke him in unexpected ways. It is a painful, unwilling rebirth; everything that he made himself into torn loose. He is a blank canvas and he doesn't even know where to begin.

He is stupid at first, haunting skanky tattoos shops that are in the bad sections of any major city, trying to recapture who he was, but the new ink never lasts, slowly fading over a few days, leaving him blank and lost again. He stops _that_ particular form of torture fairly quickly.

It is strange to see himself in mirrors, the sprawling colors still faintly visible to his mind's eye, like a weird afterimage, fading back to memory after he blinks a few time. Without the contrast of his necklace of thorns, without Jack and his two stars and all the other ink, he seems to be a ghost of his former self. It is hard to meet the reflection of his own brown eyes.

He learns, over time, to avoid reflective surfaces.

* * *

Pete spends the next years wandering the world, trying to find himself, trying to figure out what his purpose is. There is no _Vampires for Dummies_ that he's been able to find and he ends up spending a lot of time being confused and angstful and skulking in the dark.

He's an embarrassing cliché but he can't seem to help it.

He uses his not-inconsiderable charms to get women (and sometimes men) to take him home and in the dark of the night, when they're sound asleep, he carefully bites them, stealing some of their essence.

The blood always tastes metallic and _hot_ ; it's the only warm thing Pete feels and it reminds him forcefully of his life before the freaky vampire shit when down.

Sometimes the thirst overwhelms him and he hunts, chasing down his human prey in dark alleyways. He tries to keep from getting that hungry.

He doesn't know how to behave; he's never met another of his kind except the one that created him and Pete hasn't seen him since the day he became a vampire. The only guide he has is popular media, which might have a grain of truth to it, but really, fuck no.

Garlic doesn't bother him and neither does any religious paraphernalia, but the sun, the sun _burns_ him. And that's when Pete knows that being a vampire is a curse, a punishment.

He misses the feel of sunlight on his skin, warming him slowly from the outside in. He has memories of summer days but he doesn't look at them too often, worrying about them fading with time. He's got so much time on his hands now. Too much time.

* * *

He travels lightly; usually his backpack is all he takes, like a fallback to the touring days. He has a credit card linked to a numbered offshore account and a notebook filled with fragments of lyrics and song ideas, poetry and prose. He has a couple of changes of clothes and a bar of biodegradable, hypo-allergenic soap.

Since he was brought over, he divested himself of his ties to his old life. Why torment himself with things he can't have, people he can't see or touch or talk to? It's hard enough being a vampire with the thirst for blood and severe allergy to sunlight; he's sure that his longing for his old life would overwhelm him if he's not careful.

When the notebook is filled with his scribbles, he sends it to an old address in Wilmette, the same post office box that he sends the rest of his notebooks to. Pete is always tempted to include a note, has actually repeatedly gone so far as to write a brief I'm-okay note but always ends up crumpling it up and throwing it away.

Because honestly, he's not okay. He'll never be okay again.

Sometimes, when he's in the right place at the right time, he'll hear a tune on the radio, a beloved voice singing familiar words, words from one of his notebooks. It warms him, for a while.

* * *

There is one email address that he didn't delete when he left and he knows he should have. Only the most important people in his life know about that account and it is an almost unbearable temptation to check it whenever he finds himself at an internet cafe in Kathmandu or Moscow, Vancouver or Shanghai.

Some days he feels so cold he wants to wait for the dawn, let it warm him for a brief moment before he dies. This is one of those days; he's hungry and shivering and he just needs _something_ to remind him why doesn't seek out the sun.

He's in Tokyo and the neon glow hustle-and-bustle of the city gets on his nerves. His hands are shaking as he goes to one of the better cafés and he pays ¥400 for his hour of internet and endless sodas.

He bites his lip, terrified that he's reached this point, his emotions a fucked-up tangle of _need_ and _want_. What if there are no emails waiting, after ten long fucking years? What if his mailbox is stuffed with them? Then what?

He clicks on the icon for the inbox and there are over five hundred messages like

_Pete -- Your parents are going crazy, please call and let us know you're not dead in a ditch somewhere..._

and

_Pete -- I'm going to fucking kill you when I see you again, this isn't funny, disappearing like this..._

and

_Pete -- Come home, please, everyone misses you and the police think I've killed you and buried your body in the back yard..._

and

_Pete -- I am so fucking done. If you don't call me or your parents, I'm going to let the police know that you've been sending me stuff, that you're still alive..._

and

_Pete -- God dammit, where are you? Your dad wants to have you declared dead - it's been five fucking years and he wants closure. I don't know what's going on with you but this is fucked up, call me, you asshole..._

and as the years pass, the emails grow more introspective, thoughtful and less angry.

_...loved the recent stuff you sent, Pete, pure gold, wish you were here to work on the new album, I miss you..._

and

_...some nights I dream of you, but you just look at me, wide-eyed and silent. I'm afraid I can't remember what you sound like anymore, it's been so long since I've heard your voice..._

and

_...whatever's wrong, Pete, I swear we can fix it. There's nothing that you could do that would make me stop loving you, so come home, please come home..._

and worst of all

_Pete -- Come home, please. I love you. I miss you. I can't remember what you feel like, I've forgotten how you taste and I hate that, so much..._

dated last week.

Pete's fingers itch to type and he swipes carelessly at the tears on his face. What is he going to say? 'Sorry, I can't come home because I'm a fucking vampire?' He laughs and the sound is bitter in his mouth.

He closes the mail program and logs out, feeling like he will never be warm again.

-fin-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Set Me Free in this Starlit City by Akamine_chan [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/944909) by [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314)




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